


Gala

by ThoseFiveChicks



Series: Under The Bed [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Despite those tags I swear this is fluff, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Even if there is a learning curve, Gen, Vampire Bruce Wayne, Vampire Dick Grayson, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 09:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18466144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoseFiveChicks/pseuds/ThoseFiveChicks
Summary: If Jason can make it through the night without getting into a fistfight with the paparazzi, he's going to call it a win.





	Gala

**Author's Note:**

> Bit of a step back in chronology, but I had this concept stuck in my head and wanted to knock it out. This series isn't dead, I'm just busy as fuck.

“So. . . how does this work?”

Bruce glanced over at Jason for a moment, then went back to straightening his tie using his reflection in the car window. It was strange how much more familiar he looked all dressed up, fully realized as the sharp figure in a suit that Jason had so often seen on the crumpled covers of trash mags and the silent screens of department store TVs. Maybe someday Jason would think of Bruce Wayne as more than a photo op and a paparazzi candid, but so far he still couldn’t see the guy in his pajamas at ‘breakfast’ without feeling like he needed to apologize for breaking and entering.

Fuck, it’d been _months_. He’d never get used to this.

“How does what work?” Bruce asked.

Jason gestured between them at their _getup_ (Bruce’s dashing, Jason’s awkward) and then more broadly, indicating the world at large. “This. The gala. How are you going to get around the fact that you can’t eat real food?”

“Jason, no one at these things eats real food,” Bruce said, and Jason most _definitely_ did not stifle a snort of laughter. That was a question dodge, and Jason didn’t acknowledge those no matter _how_ amusing they might be.

( _Who the_ fuck _told Batman he was allowed to have a sense of humor? Certainly not Jason_ )

“Come on. I’m serious. I’ve been hearing about you attending these things for years, and never _once_ has anyone mentioned noticing your _unusual diet_.”

Bruce let out a small breath that might have been the second cousin of a sigh, or maybe the stepfather of a laugh. Considering he didn’t actually need oxygen, Jason was noting it down as a personal insult either way.

“Well,” he began, “For one, they’re not looking for it. Reporters usually have their ears perked for what’s coming _out_ of mouths, not their eyes trained on what’s going _into_ them. Maybe I’d have something to worry about if I was a woman, but no one’s ever asked Bruce Wayne about the latest diet trends.”

“Fuck the patriarchy,” Jason mumbled half on-instinct, and Bruce gave a small nod.

“Indeed. But that’s only half of it. The other half is intentional misdirection on my part– loudly giving my compliments to the chef, insisting an acquaintance try the _gougères_ , waxing poetic about the flavor palate of a rosé. Besides, I can eat human food if I absolutely have to, my body will just need to purge it eventually.”

Something clicked in Jason’s mind. “So when Dick was throwing up the other night–”

“Swiss rolls. He’s never been able to give up chocolate.”

He could imagine. If Jason had to start on a diet of blood tomorrow– something he was still half-suspicious was coming for him like the drop at the edge of a cliff– he’d miss Alfred’s baking like a severed limb. And that was only after a few months; how much more terrible had the loss been for Dick?

Bruce tilted his head, as if catching a wayward thought out of the corner of his eye. “Come to think of it, Dick couldn’t attend galas for almost a year after he was turned. We had to make some time for everyone to forget how. . . _enthusiastic_ he used to be with the hors d’oeuvres. He was still learning not to pop his teeth in public too.”

“Dick used to attend these?” Jason kept his voice level. Casually curious. As if he hadn’t googled old newspaper clippings of the circus boy his first week in the manor.

He was resolutely numb to the thought that Bruce was carting his second orphan to the same functions as his first.

“Used to love them. Had to stop attending once the newspapers started commenting on how well he was aging, but he’s been my plus one a few times since. More often than not he crashes, though.”

“You can crash a rich-person party?” Jason had been under the impression that was how you got your nose broken by bodyguards.

“Walk with enough confidence, and you can crash anything.” Bruce paused for a moment, in what would pass as _hesitation_ on a lesser man (or even a human one), then opened his mouth to add, “Not that I’m _encouraging_ –“

The car stopped.

“We’ve arrived,” Alfred said, and Jason caught his bemused eyes in the rearview mirror. “Keep me abreast of the situation, won’t you? I know it’s not your custom to retire early, but there are children here who might benefit from more sleep than is currently allotted.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Jason snapped, “I’ve been pulling all-nighters for years!”

The corners of Alfred’s eyes crinkled. “I know, master Jason, as I said. The child I was referring to is master Bruce.”

Bruce, already three-quarters of the way through opening the door, made an indignant sound in the back of his throat, but was cut off from any further response by the clamor outside.

And what a clamor it was. Jason could barely parse the overlapping interrogatives being shoved Bruce’s way, question on top of question about everything from the latest stock market trends ( _how will the falling price of steel affect_ –) to matters of the heart (– _latest breakup song mentions you by name, is this indeed a mere reference or did you two_ –). Lights flashed, lit the interior of the car with Bruce’s shadow, and then it all cut sharply off when he closed the door.

Jason took a deep breath and unflattened himself from the backseat. This was fine. Even if every instinct in his body was screaming _attention bad_ , _noise bad_ , _photographic evidence_ bad.

“It’s quite alright if you’d rather not attend, you know,” Alfred said. His voice was soft. That painful kind of softness Jason had had all too much of since he’d begun living at the manor.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah, well,” he said brusquely, “I’m already wearing a fucking suit.”

Then his door opened, and Jason was once again bombarded by a wall of light and sound. Bruce stood framed in the open doorway, broad shoulders blocking most of the crowd from Jason’s widening eyes. He offered Jason a hand.

Unthinking, Jason took it.

“What a fantastic father!” Someone yelled as Jason climbed out of the car. His ears burned at the comment and he yanked his hand free of Bruce’s grip, realizing only belatedly how that would look. He wasn’t used to having so many eyes on him, so many cameras pointed his way (the most he’d ever dealt with were store security cams). He’d probably just embarrassed Bruce with a moneyshot that would be splashed over every gossip rag in Gotham by morning.

Of course, if Bruce had really wanted to stop him, Jason would never have been able to pull away. Fucking vampire strength.

( _Fucking_ _Bruce_ )

A large hand settled on Jason’s shoulder, guiding him forward with a gentleness unfitting of a bloodthirsty monster. He looked up and saw the commercial smile of _Bruce Wayne: Playboy Billionaire_ draped over Bruce’s face. He waved at the crowd with his free hand.

“They’re not allowed inside,” he said softly, the words half-hidden behind his plastic pleasantness. “We just have to make it to the door, then we’re safe from the paparazzi.”

Jason glanced ahead. There couldn’t have been more than a dozen yards between them and the wide-open double-doors of the plaza.

A dozen yards had never looked further.

The smile he fixed on his face felt far more ill-fitting than Bruce’s. It was crooked, not quite screwed on right, and he felt with a burning certainty that everyone there knew it. He tried to look the part of the excited little kid– and he _was_ excited, sure, but also

( _Terrified_ )

( _Jason didn’t_ do _terrified_ )

“You’re doing great,” Bruce murmured, then raised his voice and inflection to call out “ _Charlie_ , how are you?”

“Excited to finally meet the new member of the family,” a reporter in a brown suit called back, and she smiled down at Jason from behind the steel barricade. “Enjoying the limelight little guy?”

Jason’s response was drowned out by a cry of “ _Mister Wayne, is it true you plan to hire a private tutor for the boy?_ ” which was honestly fine by him. He wasn’t totally sure what words his mouth had managed to form anyway. Probably for the best they never made it to anyone’s ears.

( _He was half-inclined to think one of them might have been_ Fuck)

The barrage of questions finally diverted at the arrival of a new limousine. A few stubborn reporters still shouted after them, but the majority turned their attention to ( _holy shit was that_ Harvey Dent _back there? Jason was going to crawl under a table and never come out_ )

They made it inside. Bruce stopped guiding him forward. They paused in the entry hall, in between reporters and schmoozers, and _Bruce Wayne_ dropped away to leave Bruce alone looking down at him.

“You alright?” he asked. His eyes scrutinized Jason’s face, though by now Dick’s big mouth had given away that his ears were by far the more attentive threat. Jason hoped his heartbeat wouldn’t betray him as he lied to Bruce’s face.

“What, you think I’ve never seen a crowd before? I’m fine. But they better have champagne by the bottle in there.”

One of Bruce’s eyebrows ticked upwards a fraction of a millimeter.

“You’re twelve. You won’t be drinking.”

“Try and stop me,” Jason said, and he would’ve said more if ( _yep, that was Harvey Fucking Dent, district attorney and legendary hardass_ ) hadn’t come up behind them and clapped Bruce on the shoulder.

“Bruce!” he greeted in a cheerful boom, and now it was Bruce’s turn to be ushered forward. Jason followed, thankful to not have eyes on him for the moment. There were few people he wanted to have looking at him less than Harvey Dent.

“Harvey.” Bruce’s tone was warm. His smile seemed genuine. _Weird_. Considering Dent’s stance on Batman (and his vocal support for the removal of said inhuman beast from their city), Jason hadn’t thought Bruce would be the biggest fan of the guy.

( _Honestly, for years he’d wondered why the Batman didn’t just exsanguinate him in his sleep_ )

“Sorry we haven’t seen each other as of late, you know how work is.” Dent shook his head, a self-deprecating smile touching his lips. They had entered the main room now, and their steps stilled, becoming just another small cluster of people in the constellation of rich assholes that dotted the ballroom floor. “I meant to pop by when I heard the news, but then that thing with the giraffe came up and– well, I shouldn’t talk about it here. Over lunch sometime soon, yeah?”

“Sounds wonderful,” Bruce said, and Jason’s mind turned back to their earlier conversation. Forget a gala, how did Bruce go about faking a whole _meal?_ “ _Heard the news_ is putting it a bit lightly though, Harv. I can’t thank you enough.”

“For what? You know that’s not my jurisdiction.” Dent winked. “All I did was answer a couple honest questions from a couple colleagues. Their decision was entirely their own.”

Jason didn’t really know how the adoption process _worked_ . It muddled together in his head with the rest of the mess that had followed his midnight ride in the Batmobile– the police chief ( _Commissioner_ fucking _Gordon_ ) asking him quiet questions about his mother’s death, the woman with the jangling bracelets explaining his father was unreachable, Dick proudly presenting an ice-cream-cake with lopsided lettering that read _welcome to the family!_ He was, however, fairly sure that an attorney was an attorney and why _wouldn’t_ Jason be Dent’s jurisdiction?

( _He’d certainly ripped off enough cars to spend a month in court, not that he’d admitted that_ )

“Your opinion certainly streamlined things at least,” Bruce insisted.

( _And Bruce being rich clearly had nothing to do with it, huh_ )

Dent laughed it off and changed the subject. “So this is Jason, huh?” he asked. He was looking at Jason, but his words were clearly for Bruce.

“Yeah,” Jason said before his brain got the better of his mouth, “This is.”

Dent gave a snort, bent half-over to put himself on a closer eye-level to Jason (Jason bit the inside of his cheek to keep from rolling his eyes) and offered him a hand.

“Spirited, aren’t you? It’s nice to meet you, Jason.”

Jason very much doubted that, but he shook Dent’s hand anyway.

“Most people go with _little shit_ , but spirited is nice too.”

( _Fuck, he’d just cursed at the district attorney_ )

Dent’s smile didn’t so much as flicker, and he laughed again as he straightened back up. “I can see why Bruce here got so attached to you. Word of advice though, Jason, work on your introduction– I’m not the last person who’s going to want to shake your hand tonight.”

. . .

Dent had not been lying.

Jason’s arm was tired. His voice was tired. His _brain_ was tired, too many new faces and names all crowding for space in his short-term memory ( _like_ hell _they were making it into storage_ ). He felt like he’d met roughly half the population of Gotham in the past three hours, and he wasn’t exactly impressed. He’d been looked down on, laughed at, pinched ( _and_ fuck _polite society for telling him he couldn’t bite someone when they went for his cheek_ ) and generally annoyed within an inch of his life. The _hors d'oeuvres_ were too rich for him, most feeling like someone had just tried to shove the most expensive ingredients they could find on a cracker flaked with gold leaf, and the only saving grace was the desserts.

Still, he could only house so many mini chocolate mousses before making himself sick, and while throwing up on some rich asshat’s shoes would be the most fun he’d had all night Jason couldn’t imagine Bruce would appreciate it.

(“ _You’re doing so well,” he’d said about an hour in, smiling his non-plastic smile at Jason, and Jason had begrudgingly scrapped his plan to upend a champagne flute over the next person who tried to ruffle his hair_ )

“Hey,” he said, nudging Bruce’s arm. Once he had his attention, he gestured towards one of the huge-ass balconies by the far wall. “I’m gonna go get some fresh air.”

Bruce gave him an appraising look. “Do you want me to come with you?”

The lady Bruce had been chatting with looked displeased by the idea, and Jason had to squash his petty side. As much as he’d like to interrupt her shit attempts at landing a billionaire, he needed a break from more than just the party.

“No, I’ll be fine. You keep talking to your _friends_.” Jason gave the lady his most shit-eating grin, then turned to start weaving his way through the crowd.

“Jason,” Bruce called after him, “Don’t get lost.”

Jason rolled his eyes, waving him off. Get _lost?_ In a one-room plaza? Didn’t matter how gigantic it was, there was literally no way to get lost in a place with no walls. Fucking _Bruce_. Fucking _worrying about him_.

He bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t look back.

His small size was an asset when it came to squeezing through gaps in the crowd. The people here were much more polite about moving than the average street Gothamite too; where Jason might expect an elbow to the face and a _watch it kid_ he instead received a fake smile and an _oh, pardon you young man_.

He was halfway to the balconies when he tripped, foot catching on the hem of some woman’s dress and sending him crashing against the side of a man with a truly impressive moustache and a truly unimpressive haircut. He reeked like cigarettes and mothballs. Jason recovered quickly, straightening up with a _sorry sir_ , and the man gave him a look usually reserved for gum on the bottom of ones’ shoe before smoothing out his expression into something bland and pleasant.

“Ah, Bruce Wayne’s kid, right? No harm done.”

His smile stretched badly over his face. Jason rubbed the back of his neck, the picture of contriteness.

“Thanks, sir. Sorry, sir,” he said, backing away quickly.

The man’s smile tightened further and he went back to talking with his circle of what Jason assumed were dust bunnies disguised as businessmen. Jason turned around and closed the remaining distance between him and the balcony.

Fresh night air hit his face– as fresh as it got in Gotham, anyway– and Jason sighed as he leaned against the railing. He could _feel_ a physical weight dropping off of him, untying his lungs and relaxing his muscles. No more eyes on him, no one judging his poor manners or lack of a pedigree, no pressure to be _doing well_.

He reached into his jacket pocket. Pulled out the pack of cigarettes he’d lifted off the businessman. It was some brand he’d never heard of, foreign-looking and guaranteed to be expensive, but nicotine was nicotine. He started to shake one of the cigs out of the carton.

“Smoking kills, you know.”

Jason jumped. He almost dropped the cigarettes, managing only at the last minute to keep them from tumbling off the balcony. He turned a glare on the half of the balcony that fell in shadow, at where Dick was perched on the edge of the railing in full Nightwing regalia. He waved at Jason, a little twiddle of fingers, and Jason snarled.

“Don’t _do_ that.”

Dick’s lips twitched. “Aw come on, Jaybird, I can’t help that you’re deaf!”

Rather than dignify that with a response, Jason turned back to the view of the city and the all-important task of lighting up. His heart still hadn’t settled in his chest. He felt rather than heard Dick come closer, a presence at his shoulder that made Jason roll his eyes.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” he asked.

Dick leaned back against the railing and into Jason’s line of sight, a luxurious kind of slouch that almost hid the way his gaze was locked onto Jason’s hands. “I am. I was on my way by when I happened to catch a glimpse of a certain miscreant with some contraband.”

Cigarette in hand, Jason shoved the rest of the pack back into his jacket pocket. “Uh-huh, right, you got a blowtorch in that thing?”

“You’re not using a blowtorch to light a smoke, Jay.”

“Lighter, then.”

“ _Jason_.”

Jason huffed. “So I smoke, so what? Jealous that I’m cooler than you?”

“You’re _twelve_.” Dick’s tone was incredulous, and Jason had to remind himself that getting into a fistfight in a suit probably wasn’t a good idea.

“ _So?_ ” he repeated instead. “Just be glad I’m not on any of the harder shit, God only knows there was plenty of it on hand at h– in the streets.”

He hadn’t meant to pick it up, exactly. It had just happened. A job with some older kids going well, a charitable mood that turned into an offer of a free smoke, a few late nights keeping watch with nothing better to do. And it wasn’t like they were hard to get his hands on. Some nights he had an easier time getting a smoke than food.

( _And part of him railed at the thought of going like his mother had but the rest took a kind of sick, vindictive pleasure at filling his lungs with smog when things got to be too much_ )

( _There were too many people here_ )

He was gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached, and when Dick reached for him he flinched away. His gloved hand retracted awkwardly, hung in the air between them, and then Dick sighed and let it drop.

Jason swallowed something acrid.

“Gonna rat me out to daddy?” he asked, though his heart wasn’t in it.

Dick tilted his head, and Jason resolutely ignored the eyes he knew were raking his form, analyzing his posture and bearing. “He’ll smell it on you. Cigarette smoke clings, and it’s. . . _strong_.”

“So that’s the reason. Don’t want me stinking up the manor.” Jason squeezed his eyes shut.

“Jason. . .”

“No, I know. I know. Sorry. Shit, I’m just– what the fuck is wrong with me? Bruce leaves me alone for ten seconds and I start pickpocketing in the middle of a fancy-pants gala?”

“Jason.”

“God, I can’t fucking stand this. He should’ve just left me in the gutter to fucking rot–”

“ _Jason!_ ”

Jason opened his eyes. Looked up. Dick had grabbed his hands, pulling him sharply from his thoughts. He bit his lower lip to keep it from trembling. _Stupid_.

The cigarette dropped from his numb fingers.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered. He breathed it like a secret, like some kind of goddamn _revelation_ , as if it _wasn’t_ something that everyone already knew. Him, Dick, every rich asshole in the whole damn party, Bruce himself. Jason Todd, the charity case. The basket case. Has everything now and still isn’t better.

Dick regarded him for a long moment, silent in judgement, probably working out how best to lie to him. How best to put on a plastic smile and convince him to take Bruce’s pity.

Instead, Dick said, “You know Bruce hates these parties?”

Jason blinked. Looked up into the blank mask of Nightwing. “What?”

“Hates them. With every fiber of his being. Can’t stand all the posturing and false flattery.” Dick shrugged, and carefully let go of Jason’s hands. Unsure of what to do with them, he tucked them into his pockets. “I know he puts on a good show, but if he could fake his own death to get out of these, he would. He _has_.”

Jason supposed Dick Grayson, adoptive son of Bruce Wayne the third and long since passed away of (what was it? Pneumonia?) would know. But–

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked. If it was a subject dodge, sure, he could see that, but Dick was saying it like it was _important_. Like Jason was supposed to _get_ something.

Dick shrugged. Jason wished he could see his eyes. “Because I know he can be hard to read sometimes. Most of the time. All the time. But, I mean, I’m guessing he brought you because I used to love these things and if _you’re_ not having a good time. . .”

“Oh,” Jason said, then, “ _Oh_. So if I were to go in there and throw up on someone–”

“Maybe not _on_ someone, Jay.”

“–that would be a good excuse to leave early?”

“You’d be making his night.” Dick patted his shoulder, which Jason didn’t flinch from this time, and hopped back up onto the railing. “And speaking of which, I gotta roll. Burning moonlight and all that. I’ll see you at home sometime, Jaybird!” he chirped, and with a final salute Nightwing dropped backwards off the balcony into the darkness below.

“Showoff,” Jason muttered, but he was smiling when he turned to go back inside.

Jason honestly wasn’t sure if Bruce was still talking to the same lady or if she’d been replaced by a similar-looking, slightly-drunker model. Bruce Wayne looked enraptured, gesturing broadly to conclude some kind of wild tale, and the lady laughed far too hard and smiled far too wide.

“–and honestly, you simply _must_ try the _gougères_ ,” Bruce was saying as Jason approached, and Jason bit back a snort.

He tugged on Bruce’s sleeve, and it was only when the vampire looked down to meet his gaze that he caught, buried _deep_ under a facade of pleasantness, the same kind of agitated nervousness that had sent Jason spiraling on the balcony.

“I feel sick,” Jason said, instead of _we’re both fucking idiots_.

Bruce’s shoulders sagged in what could be read as disappointment or relief.

“Oh,” he said, “That’s just– a shame, but don’t worry Jason, we’ll get you right home.”

The woman, put out by such an abrupt dismissal, cleared her throat. Her voice was sickly honey.

“You’ll be staying though, right Brucie? I’m sure your driver can remember the way home just fine, he can handle putting the boy to bed.”

Jason looked up at her. Contempt welled up inside of him.

Something else welled up too.

. . .

“Those shoes cost more than some people’s houses, didn’t they,” Jason asked. The car purred softly through the winding streets of Gotham, and he watched buildings and streetlights drift past the window in a streaky blur.

Bruce hummed. “Most likely, yes. But you did warn her you were feeling sick.”

There was no way that the Batman had missed Jason shoving a surreptitious finger down his throat as he bent over to retch. Still, Bruce’s tone held nothing but faint amusement.

Jason pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window. “Sorry I made a bad first impression on your friend.”

“What, Harv? He loved you. They all did. If you’re not the darling of the socialites by the time you’re all grown up I’ll be shocked.”

Jason groaned. “ _Please God no_.”

“I suspect, Master Bruce,” Alfred said tactfully, though Jason caught the corners of his eyes crinkling, “That you shall have many a night in to tend to a sick child in the future.”

“A tragedy,” Bruce agreed.

Jason snorted, folding his arms loosely over his front. He couldn’t wait to get home, get out of these clothes and have a cup of that chicken soup Alfred had insisted he’d be making. Classic. Simple. No gold leaf anywhere in it.

It took him half the drive home to realize the cigarettes weren’t in his pocket anymore.


End file.
